Harry wasn’t entirely sure why he was sitting in this room.
Why he was holding a towel and drying his soaking wet hair instead of just using a drying charm.
Admittedly, the room looked cozy.
It carried a pleasant scent, camellia blossoms.
Harry found the source quickly enough: several pots of white camellias arranged along the windowsill, and a few cut stems standing in the vase on the coffee table, blooming beautifully.
He sat on a white sofa, soft beneath him.
Across from him, a fireplace burned with a steady, vigorous flame.
The psychologist named Aiken had been fussing near it just moments ago, he guessed she’d added some firewood.
The flames climbed higher.
The warmth followed.
Harry had to admit it.
The place was undeniably relaxing and pleasant.
And yet he still should not have been here.
Today had not been kind to him.
He’d forced himself to hold it together, to stand on that stage and deliver those cold, rehearsed speeches.
The words changed every year, and they never changed at all.
The faces in the crowd had looked up at him — admiration, relief, conviction — and for no reason he could name, he felt hollow with guilt.
He had no right to be up there.
He was the one who had indirectly caused those deaths, and yet the families and friends of the fallen were watching him with that trusting gaze.
It was terrifying.
Every year, the anniversary was unbearable.
Everything went hazy.
By the time he came back to himself, Hermione and Ron were already steering him out of the Ministry of Magic.
“That counseling practice isn’t far from the Ministry,” he heard Hermione say.
“What counseling practice?” Harry looked at them, stunned.
“You promised,” Ron said, as though it were perfectly obvious.
“That after the anniversary, you’d go see a psychologist.”
The rebuttal stuck in his throat.
Half-coaxed and half-pushed, he’d ended up here.
“Is there anything you’d like to drink?”
Dr.
Chloe Aiken’s voice was gentle.
Harry frowned slightly and said nothing.
He had no desire for any kind of psychological treatment.
No desire to confide his so-called suffering to a stranger.
Sometimes he even felt that the pain itself was self-indulgent.
After all, he was still alive, wasn’t he?
Dr.
Aiken seemed like a kind person.
Both in the way she’d gathered basic information from Hermione and Ron just now, and in her tone at this moment.
He had no wish to make things difficult for her.
So Harry made a quiet decision: he would resist this session by saying nothing.
That way he could at least give Hermione and Ron something to show for it.
What surprised him was that Chloe said nothing in return.
She didn’t ask again, either.
She simply set a cup of hot tea down beside him and left it there.
Chloe could read the reluctance and wariness in his body language.
His back wasn’t even touching the sofa.
Posture rigid, hands clasped tightly between his knees, he looked like someone who might stand up and leave at any moment, or reach for the wand hidden up his sleeve. This chapter is updated first at novelping . com.
Chloe would have bet it was in the left sleeve.
Michael had the same habit.
She rose and walked to the consulting room door, nudging it experimentally.
The faint creak of the hinge, the soft scrape of the bottom edge against the floorboard, both were enough.
Harry’s head snapped around instantly.
Chloe stopped.
Her expression gave nothing away.
The easy smile didn’t shift.
“I was going to close it, but then I thought it might feel too stuffy. It’s raining outside, so I can’t open the window.”
She spoke as she pushed the door fully open again.
“Is this seat comfortable? If you’d like, you can move to the other side — it’s a little closer to the fireplace.”
Harry was quiet for a moment.
Then he stood and moved to the sofa across from where he’d been.
Chloe had known he’d choose that.
From that angle, he could watch the doorway at all times.
He watched her walk to her desk and take two books and a large box from the cabinet.
He narrowed his eyes at the box.
It looked familiar, like the colored pencils he’d given to Bill’s two daughters, and to Teddy.
“You’re in luck,” Chloe said, settling beside him.
She slid the cup of tea closer to him and handed him one of the books.
“I just bought a few coloring books. I love doing this. What could be more enjoyable than a slow, quiet afternoon of coloring on a rainy day?”
Harry made no move.
Chloe didn’t seem to expect any response.
She spread the pencil box open and pushed it to the middle of the table.
The pencils inside had been sharpened to varying lengths, clearly used often.
Harry couldn’t deny it: something about the way they looked, a little haphazard, made him feel strangely, unexpectedly at ease.
Chloe tilted her head and studied the box for a moment.
Then she selected one in a very soft, pale green.
She opened her own book and began slowly coloring a leaf, one stroke at a time.
Quiet.
Unhurried.
The only sounds in the room were the crackle of wood burning in the fireplace, the soft scratch of pencil against paper, and the breathing of two people.
It was quite some time before Harry realized he’d been watching her.
By now she’d finished the small leaves and moved on to filling in the center of a flower with yellow.
He felt, distantly, that this was a waste of time.
He could have spent these hours working through the reports stacking up on his desk, or tracking down dark wizards.
But Chloe looked genuinely happy.
Absorbed.
And something about that made him feel, without warning, a sudden impulse to try it himself.
At last, he opened the coloring book beside him.
The first page showed a garden.
Harry looked at it for a moment, then chose a grayish-brown pencil and began filling in the stones along the path.
Neither of them said a word.
The only sounds were the occasional soft click of a pencil being set back into the box, and another being drawn out.
Harry knew that Chloe was working in her own book the entire time.
She hadn’t been watching him.
He had been certain this session would drive him to his limit.
That he’d be looking for any way out.
He’d even prepared himself, if it came to it, he would Obliviate her and walk out.
Yet somehow, in this not-quite-private space, he had found something rare: the feeling of not being watched.
For the first time, he didn’t want to run. This story is hosted at novelping.com.
His shoulders eased down, degree by degree.
He noticed a dull ache in his back, and slowly leaned into the sofa, and kept right on coloring.
He felt it.
Something that could only be called safety.
It was only when he’d finished the entire page that he realized how long he’d been sitting here.
The old vigilance came flooding back.
He set the book down and looked across at Chloe.
She appeared to have finished before him.
She was sitting with her head tilted, gazing at the white camellias on the windowsill.
When she noticed him looking, she turned back to him, the gentle smile still in place.
She leaned forward slightly to look at the picture Harry had completed.
“A lovely color combination, Mr. Potter,” Chloe said.
“Real artistic flair.”
Harry watched her reach under the desk and produce a small, elegant box.
From inside it, she drew out a ribbon.
The soft sound of the page being carefully torn free was oddly pleasant.
It made Harry think of how he sometimes lost control and tore apart the reports on his desk, then restored them.
His coloring was gently rolled up and tied with the ribbon.
“You’re welcome to take it with you, if you’d like.” Chloe set the wrapped picture in the middle of the table.
“I have free time on Thursday afternoons, and I’ll be here. You’re welcome to come by next week.”
Harry wanted to say something.
That he wouldn’t be coming back.
That he didn’t actually need counseling.
That she didn’t need to set that time aside for him.
Somehow the words wouldn’t come.
And besides, it was fine, wasn’t it?
Because what she’d said meant she wasn’t specifically waiting for him.
If he simply didn’t show up, that was perfectly fine.
Harry hesitated.
Then he picked up the picture.
“Thank you.” His voice came out a little hoarse.
“Is there anything you’d like to drink next time?”
He was almost through the door when Chloe asked.
Harry paused.
He didn’t answer.
Not until the sound of his footsteps had completely faded did Chloe let herself extinguish the fire.
She could wear short sleeves in the depths of winter and not feel the slightest cold, the fireplace had been for him.
She pulled a brand-new case file from the desk drawer and wrote “Harry Potter” on it in careful strokes.
“Client did not present a clear chief complaint. Made no voluntary reference to wartime experiences or related events. Presented overall as quiet, restrained, and polite, while maintaining a marked psychological distance…”
Chloe frowned.
Thanks to Michael, she knew Harry Potter’s history thoroughly, the Savior of the wizarding world.
Even without a single meaningful exchange, she could infer severe PTSD.
Possibly compounded by complex trauma.
She had seen that kind of damage in George Weasley, too.
“Good God.” She closed the file softly after finishing, and let out a slow breath.
“If he’s willing to come back — that alone will already be progress.”
➤ Next: Aftermath of Therapy